- -
- 100%
- +
Aubrey Masters came around the desk to greet Edward and Neville. He was a fussy, small, somewhat rotund man in his late forties, dark haired with a florid complexion and brown eyes set close together.
Hurrying forward, grasping Edward’s hand, he exclaimed, ‘Mr Edward, come in, come in, and sit down!’ Turning to Neville, he shook his hand also, and indicated the other chair in front of the desk. ‘Welcome to Deravenels, Mr Watkins. It’s some time since you’ve been here. Over a year, if I recall correctly.’
‘That’s true,’ Neville responded and lowered himself into the chair. His gaze remained on Aubrey Masters, who had gone to sit down behind the desk.
‘Please accept my condolences, Mr Edward, for this awful loss you have suffered, and you too, Mr Watkins. My deepest condolences to you both,’ Masters began. ‘This tragedy has been a blight on the company for the last few days, since we received the dreadful news. Everyone has been plunged into sorrow and gloom—’
‘Thank you,’ Edward said peremptorily, cutting Masters off sharply. ‘My cousin and I are most appreciative of your kind thoughts and sympathy, and we certainly thank you for sparing our mothers undue and additional heartache. To have received the news by telephone would have been perfectly ghastly for them both, unbearable actually.’
‘Yes, it would. It seemed to me at the time that contacting Mr Watkins was the right and proper way to handle the matter,’ Aubrey Masters answered, leaning forward over the desk, his hands clasped together.
‘Most sensitive indeed,’ Neville interjected, his eyes appraising as he studied Masters, weighing him up.
‘Mr Watkins and I are very anxious to know exactly what happened to our fathers and brothers in Carrara, Masters. We have been given only the slightest information about their deaths, and we hope you will now supply more of the details.’
Clearing his throat several times, Aubrey nodded. ‘I’m sorry to say I do not have a great deal of information, Mr Edward. All I know is that a fire started in the hotel last Sunday night. I was informed on Monday, by telegram from Carrara.’
‘And who sent the telegram?’ Edward asked, keeping a tight rein on his emotions. He was re-discovering his inherent antipathy towards Masters, who had never been a particular favourite of his father’s either. There was something shifty about him, and Edward was convinced that his loyalty was for sale, and always had been. Edward now wondered about the man’s integrity. Certainly it was not a characteristic he associated with the head of the Mining Division.
Aubrey Masters, staring at Edward in return, said in the most matter-of-fact voice he could summon, ‘I was informed of the tragedy by Alfredo Oliveri.’
‘Isn’t he the manager of our business affairs in Carrara?’
‘Yes, he is. He works with the superintendent of the mines.’
‘I see. And there’s another manager in Florence, isn’t there?’ Edward remarked. ‘Fabrizio Dellarosa.’
Masters nodded. ‘Dellarosa runs our overall business in Italy, and he was the one who worked most closely with Mr Richard—er, your father.’
‘Has he been in touch with you?’
‘Yes, he has.’ Aubrey sat up a little straighter, more intent on his visitors, looking from Deravenel to Watkins, suddenly detecting hostility. He wondered why. A rush of panic hit him. Had he forgotten something? Did they know more than he did? If there was more to know. Clearing his throat, he announced in a clear, firm voice, ‘Look, I have told you everything I know, Mr Edward.’
‘Were they badly burned in the fire?’ Neville asked, swallowing, not permitting his heartache to surface.
‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know. Oliveri told me by telegram that they were found in the hotel and that their bodies had been taken to the hospital in Florence. That they were being held there until the arrival of the family members. That is yourselves, of course.’
‘And that’s all you know?’ Edward said, incredulity echoing in his voice.
Masters appeared to be mystified by this question. ‘There’s not much else to know,’ he murmured, looking confused and worried.
‘Were they all together? Were they in a lounge or the foyer? Or in their bedrooms? How long did the fire burn? Why were they not rescued before it was too late? What did the police report say?’ Edward stared hard at Aubrey Masters, his eyes narrowed. ‘There’s a great deal more I want to know about this matter, and so does my cousin.’
‘Oh, dear, maybe I’ve made an error.’
‘What do you mean?’ Edward asked quickly, fixing his bright blue gaze on Masters.
‘Perhaps I should have gone to Italy at once, to look into the situation instead of leaving it to the Italian managers.’
‘Perhaps you should,’ Edward shot back coldly, glaring at him.
The silence in the room was deafening.
Edward sat perfectly still in the chair, filled with frustration. Was Aubrey Masters really a nincompoop or was he a clever dissembler? He wasn’t sure, and suddenly he made up his mind to leave this office at once. There was nothing he and Neville could learn here, that was patently obvious. Once they arrived in Italy in the next few days they would gather the facts themselves.
After leaving the Deravenel offices Edward and Neville went out into the street, where Neville spoke to the driver of his carriage. The two men then walked across the Strand and entered the Savoy Court, the forecourt to both the Savoy Hotel and the adjoining Savoy Theatre.
Neville broke his stride as they approached the theatre, and turning to Edward, he said, ‘It’s thanks to those Gilbert and Sullivan operettas that Richard D’Oyly Carte was able to build this theatre and the hotel a few years ago, you know. All those profits from them, he made a veritable fortune.’
Edward nodded. ‘So my father told me. He loved the operettas, especially The Mikado and H.M.S. Pinafore.’
‘Not to my taste. I much prefer Mozart.’
Once they were seated at their table, Neville ordered a bottle of dry white wine and sat back in the chair, regarding his cousin intently. ‘You don’t like Aubrey Masters, do you, Ned?’ he said at last.
‘It’s not a question of liking or disliking him…I’m not sure that I trust him. He never was a favourite of Father’s, and when we were at the offices I began to wonder if he was stupid or a clever dissembler.’
‘If he’s given to dissimulation then he’s a mighty fine actor. Personally, I think he’s a trifle dimwitted. Which brings me to a leading question. Why is he in that position? Who made him head of the Mining Division?’
‘Henry Grant, of course. Aubrey Masters is a relative, a cousin twice removed, I do believe.’
‘Nepotism again, eh?’ Neville shook his head. ‘Weren’t you surprised, not hearing from Henry Grant, not receiving condolences?’
‘Not really. You see, before Father left for Italy he told me that Henry was out of sorts, not feeling his best, and that he had gone into a religious retreat in Cumbria for two months. So presumably he’s still there, and perhaps no one’s bothered to inform him of our tragedy.’
‘If that is so then I find it quite preposterous he’s been kept in the dark.’
‘So do I. Never mind that. We have better fish to fry, you and I, Neville. It is imperative that we set off for Italy as soon as possible. Will and I are both prepared to leave immediately. You just have to say the word.’
‘We depart on Saturday, Ned. All the arrangements are being made by the Thomas Cook agency, as I mentioned earlier. I merely have to confirm the hotel to them later today.’
‘The Ritz is fine, as I told you.’
Neville nodded and picked up a menu. ‘I’ve hardly eaten for days, and I know it’s been the same for you. However, I do think we should order a decent meal, if only to keep our strength up.’
‘You’re right. The problem is I haven’t been at all hungry. Lost my appetite.’
Following suit and opening the menu, Edward studied it for a moment, then put it down, and remarked, ‘You know, the pious Henry Grant might be purging his soul and revelling in his religion, but his wife is here in London. Condolence letters could easily have been sent to us and our families, don’t you think?’
‘Look to the source, Edward. That she-wolf doesn’t know any better. Now, let’s order something to eat and relax. This afternoon we must go over our plans. We have to find a way to get to the bottom of this situation. We really do have to know whether there was foul play or not, and then act accordingly.’
‘I’m hoping the two managers in Italy will have more information for us, especially Alfredo Oliveri, since he lives in Carrara. My father always liked him, and often spoke about him. And with some affection, I might add.’
‘Then he’s our man, and no doubt he’ll have the police report. Or at least access to it. That will be a start.’
‘I thought Aubrey Masters was most cavalier in his attitude, and it infuriated me,’ Edward confided.
‘I know it did. I can read your eyes, even when you keep a poker face, Ned. Anyway, I do feel there is a way to get the better of the Lancashire Deravenels,’ Neville said, and went on, ‘I predict I will have you sitting in Henry Grant’s chair in less than six months.’
Edward was silent for a moment, and then he protested. ‘I’m so young, Neville. Let’s not forget I am not yet nineteen.’
‘Let’s not forget that William Pitt the Younger was only twenty-four when he became Prime Minister of England.’
‘But—’
‘No buts, Ned. You will run Deravenels.’
‘But only if you are by my side,’ Edward exclaimed.
‘And I will be, have no fear of that, Cousin,’ Neville Watkins promised.
NINE
Florence
They had come here to take the bodies back home to England. But they were also in Florence to find out what had happened to their kin in death. And suddenly, now that they were finally here in Italy, the one thing that Edward dreaded the most was actually viewing the bodies.
He was only too well aware that to gaze upon the waxen, lifeless faces of his father, brother, uncle and cousin would have a devastating effect on him. Conversely, he did need to see them, in order to be truly convinced they were really dead. In his mind he could not quite accept that this catastrophe had happened.
Edward Deravenel was standing in the window of his hotel room, staring out at the River Arno and the hills of Florence beyond. There was no sun on this cold January morning, and the sky was bloated, bulbous with grey clouds. A mist floated over the surface of the river, obscuring the dark waters, a mist that reminded him of London’s winter fogs.
He had arrived here last night from Paris, accompanied by Neville and Will, and they had checked into the Hotel Bristol. This was a well-known hotel, built in the second half of the nineteenth century, much frequented by the English aristocracy, and it had come highly recommended.
Like most of the grand hotels here, it was located on the banks of the Arno, and their rooms faced the river and the scattered hills which stood on the outskirts of the city. He and Will occupied rooms next to each other, while Neville was in a large suite just a few doors down the corridor.
Turning away from the window, Edward strode over to the mirror and began to tie his cravat made of a fine black silk. Once this was arranged to his satisfaction, he added a beautiful pearl pin in the centre of the carefully draped and folded knot. The pearl tiepin was a gift from his father, given to him last year for his eighteenth birthday, and he treasured it more than ever now.
Walking over to the wardrobe, he took out his waistcoat and slipped it on, returned to the cheval mirror, stared at himself, thinking how pale he looked, even haggard. With a small sigh he headed back to the wardrobe to retrieve his jacket.
And it seemed to Edward, as he walked back and forth, that the awful sense of dread he had just experienced trailed along with him, surrounding him like a thin veil, as if it were the mist off the river. He shivered involuntarily, paused next to a chair, rested his hand on it. He closed his eyes and his gaze turned inward.
I must be absolutely in control of myself today, and I must reveal nothing. My face must be unreadable at all times. I share Neville’s opinion that there has been foul play, that the fire was no accident. How we will find out the truth I do not know, but we must try. Will is of the same mind. I’m glad he came along. He gets on well with Neville, and we have both enjoyed his company.
Somehow I must get through the ordeal of viewing the bodies later this morning. And then we will go to Carrara, no matter what. I am set on that course. I must see the hotel where they met their untimely end. That is imperative. Then, hopefully, this Italian nightmare will come to an end. Later this week we will take their bodies home, to Yorkshire, where we will bury them in that benign earth, and they will rest in peace…
Insistent knocking on the door interrupted Edward’s thoughts, and he strode to open it. Will Hasling was standing there, appropriately dressed in a black suit and carrying a black overcoat on his arm.
‘I’m not too early, am I?’ Will asked, a brow lifting.
Edward shook his head. ‘Come in, Will.’ He opened the door wider and moved into the room, his friend following closely behind.
‘Have you had breakfast?’ Edward asked as he took his overcoat out of the wardrobe.
‘Yes, thanks, and so have you, I see,’ Will responded, glancing over at the tray which stood on a small side table. He frowned. ‘Coffee and a roll. Is that all you’ve eaten?’
‘I’m not very hungry.’ Edward glanced at the clock on the wall, and continued, ‘It’s only ten past nine, we’re early, I think. Fabrizio Dellarosa is not due here until ten-thirty.’
‘I know, but I was certain you would be up, and I thought we could go for a walk, take a breath of fresh air before his arrival. By the way, is Alfredo Oliveri also joining us?’
‘Dellarosa didn’t mention him in the letter I received last night. But I’m presuming he is. After all, he’s the one who lives in Carrara, and will therefore have the most information. At least, in my opinion he will.’
Will nodded in agreement, sat down on a chair and folded his overcoat across his knees. ‘Have you ever met him? Or is he a stranger, too?’
‘He’s a stranger, just as Dellarosa is, but my father always spoke so highly of Oliveri. He obviously liked the man and I think the feeling was mutual.’ Edward buttoned his three-quarter length jacket, put on his overcoat and said, ‘Shall we go, Will?’
‘Perhaps we ought to let Neville know we’re going out,’ Will ventured as they left the room.
‘It’s not necessary. The arrangement was for us to meet in the main lounge at the given hour. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’ Edward’s voice was clipped, almost curt.
‘That presents no problem to me,’ Will answered, stealing a glance at Edward. He knew he was suffering inside, filled with apprehension about what lay ahead in the next few hours. As big and strapping as he was, Will knew, nevertheless, that Ned was a sensitive and compassionate man inside. Just contemplating the manner of their deaths must be an agony for him; this aside, Ned was devoted to his family. They came first with him, and he had been particularly close to his brother Edmund, and his father and he had been closely bonded.
The two men were silent as they went down the wide staircase which led to the grand entrance foyer, and several opulent lounges. Marble abounded, and there were ceramic tubs holding potted palms placed here and there; on the walls hung a number of lovely paintings of Florence displayed in heavy gilded frames, and pieces of sculpture on plinths were placed along each side of the foyer.
Within a few seconds they found themselves standing outside the Bristol on the Via de’ Pescioni, near the Santa Maria Novella and directly opposite the Palazzo Strozzi. This was one of the most elegant districts in the city, where other important hotels were located as well as fine shops, art galleries and museums.
‘Here we are, in the greatest Renaissance city in the world, Ned,’ Will said, taking hold of his arm. ‘Let’s stroll along, go this way, and enjoy the sights for a short while.’
Edward nodded. ‘I’m sorry, Will, I know I’m being gloomy…’ He did not finish, merely shook his head, his expression suddenly sorrowful. His enthusiasm for life seemed to have fled.
‘Think about this,’ Will remarked, ignoring Ned’s comment about gloom of a moment ago. ‘Here we are in the city of Dante, Petrarch and Boccaccio. Just think, Boccaccio wrote the Decameron here, and that book became the model for prose the world over, a model that’s been popular for hundreds and hundreds of years. And still is.’
Ned glanced at his friend. ‘Niccolo Machiavelli lived here and wrote The Prince in Florence, let us not forget about him. We can all learn quite a lot from Machiavelli, you know.’
Will laughed, catching the mischievous gleam in Ned’s eyes. ‘I know what you mean, still it is a wonder to be here in this city, you know.’ He looked at Ned and then all around him, and up at the sky, and said in a voice full of awe, ‘We are walking along streets where Leonardo Da Vinci walked and Michelangelo and Botticelli, some of the world’s greatest artists…it’s unbelievable really, Ned…how incredible that this city bred such talent, such genius.’
‘Poets, princes and politicians,’ Ned murmured. ‘And the Medicis. Their dynasty lasted for several centuries, something of a record, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Indeed I would.’
A silence fell between them, and as they walked Will wondered how to bring a little cheer to Ned, to make him feel better. Instantly he realized nothing could make him feel better at this moment. First he had to deal with the dead, bury his dead, and only then would he be able to move forward, see his way to the future. He needs to close this ghastly affair, Will thought, pick up the pieces and create a life of his own making. A new life.
TEN
Neville Watkins was a striking looking man. Tall, though not quite as tall as Ned, he was of slender build, without an ounce of extra fat on him, very strong and athletic. His face was sharply chiselled; he had an aquiline nose and a smooth, rather high brow. His wide-set eyes under curved black brows were a curious pale blue, almost turquoise in colour. Clear and transparent, they were alive with immense intelligence. His colouring was dark, he had black hair, like most of the Watkins clan, and on occasion he had a strong look of his aunt, Cecily Watkins Deravenel, his father’s sister.
This morning he sat at an antique writing table in the sitting room of his suite in the Hotel Bristol, making notes for himself, trying to put some of his thoughts on paper for the meeting with Fabrizio Dellarosa in a short while.
After a few moments he put his pencil down, satisfied he had covered the relevant points. He sat back in the chair, staring out into the room.
Neville’s motto, borrowed from his father, was this: Think with the head, not the heart. This he always did in business, and often in his private life, as well. Long ago his father had cautioned him to be ice cold at all times when he dealt in business. Without emotion, inscrutable, revealing nothing. ‘Never display weakness, never lose face. That is what your grandfather taught me,’ his father had explained when he had first entered the world of commerce. They were words he had never forgotten, and he had always lived by them to this very day.
I must train Ned to be like me, Neville now thought. Certainly his father taught him many things, but I’m not quite certain Richard knew how to teach Ned to be truly cold-hearted. After all, his uncle had been a warm and loving man who should have moved against his treacherous cousin Henry Grant years ago. Grumbling about inequities, and his rights, and what should have been his, and was, in fact, his, had accomplished nothing and made many enemies within Deravenels. Deadly enemies, if the truth be known.
Neville’s mind remained focused on Ned. His cousin had a superior intelligence, and he was not afraid of anything or anyone. He had enormous self-confidence and an unbelievable charisma, the likes of which Neville had rarely seen. And he could be utterly ruthless if he needed to be. Furthermore, Ned had always had a good head for business, most especially finance.
Convinced that Ned could very easily run the Deravenel Company with the right guidance, direction and help, Neville was ready, willing and able to do all of those things to ensure his success. Together they would rule that empire one day, there was no question in Neville’s mind about this. With his own training, knowledge and experience, and Ned’s natural abilities and charismatic presence, they could accomplish almost anything. With a little luck of course. Luck always had to be factored into the equation.
Folding the piece of paper on which he had made his notes, he slipped it in the pocket of his jacket and rose. Walking across the room in long strides, Neville stood in front of the window, gazing out at the leaden sky. The sun was beginning to filter through the oppressive greyness, and he decided it might turn out to be a better day after all. He loathed dismal weather, used to it though he was, and craved the sunlight, warmer climes. Just as Cousin Ned did, hence their sojourns in the south of France over the years.
Thoughts of Ned lingered…Neville held him dear, admired him. There was only one problem with Ned as far as he could see and that was his overwhelming addiction to women. Older women. And widows, at that. Blonde widows. As long as he remained single there was no problem about his penchant for romantic and sexual dalliances, but when Ned married, which he would one day, he would have to curb his lustful behaviour, or at least be much more discreet than he usually was. Although Ned was not aware of it, Neville knew all about his current alliance with Lily Overton, not that this mattered since they were both single. Still, there were some who thought it inappropriate.
Ah well, he’s just a man after all, like all of us, poor creatures that we are, Neville thought with a small wry smile.
The three Englishmen were dressed almost exactly alike. They each wore black suits with the three-quarter length jacket that was currently so fashionable. Their white shirts were impeccable, as were their black silk cravats. Basically they were dressed in mourning clothes, and they cut quite a swathe as they strode across the lobby of the Hotel Bristol, heading towards one of the lounges. Some of the other guests, walking through the lobby, eyed them with curiosity, and several of the women with open admiration. All three men were tall, good looking, obviously English and aristocrats, an appealing combination anywhere, at any time.
As they entered the lounge a waiter came forward, smiling and showing them to a large round table which Neville had reserved a short while before.
Once seated they ordered coffee and when the waiter departed, Neville turned to Edward and said, ‘As I did when we went to Deravenels, I am going to let you take the lead in this matter, Ned. After all, Dellarosa is an employee of the company, and at this moment answerable to you.’
‘Your father was killed in the fire as well,’ Edward murmured, frowning slightly. ‘You can say anything you want to him, ask him anything, as far as I’m concerned. We’re in this together.’